


Pitiful Existence

by mrs_javert



Category: Star Trek: Picard, Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Borg - Freeform, Borg Cube, Borg Drones, Resistance is Futile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:07:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26601901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_javert/pseuds/mrs_javert
Summary: The pitiful existence of Borg drones.(A fic put together through a somewhat experimental method)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Pitiful Existence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Troodster1972](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Troodster1972/gifts).



> Well this is an odd one.  
> I’m not sure wether to call a story or a bunch of thoughts with a narrative theme.
> 
> A group of us have been enjoying a wonderful Voyager rewatch online recently and we have shared so much discussion, ideas and fic (Jeri Ryan even crashed our session with a Cameo last week which ignited much squee!).  
> As of last night we started reading our fics to our little group (that was nerve wracking)!
> 
> So this ‘whatever it is’ came about during our group Voyager evening when I put my voice record app on and just spoke this as it literally came into my head. (Hence why structure etc may differ from a normal fic - this was an experiment!).
> 
> I hope you like it, my theme was - the pitiful existence all Borg drones live through day after day.

Sleep.  
Sleep.  
Sleep is the dark void of unconscious where the self is deeply buried.  
Except there is no self.  
A constant ambience hums in the background like air.  
The ambience is as familiar as a constant hum, a constant humming sound always there in the background.  
The ambience of voices is as familiar to a Borg as birdsong is to a forest.  
In a forest the trees remain stationary, listening constantly to the sound of birdsong.  
In a forest the trees are held rigidly in place, fixed to the ground by age old roots driven into ancient ground.  
Roots.  
Roots, metal roots like cables.  
The roots that feed into the bindings where bone and cybernetic machine become one as the alcove reaches from the cube and into the drone, becoming one as the cube reaches out and binds itself at the molecular level of the drone within the alcove, allowing the drone to feed from its consciousness, allowing the drone, all of the drones to feed off the nectar that is the combined mind of the collective.  
The collective, the single mind that both empowers and equalises all the drones, that unity is a single belief, a single goal, to better oneself, to assimilate the unknown, to add technological and biological distinctiveness to their own, resistance was futile.  
Yes a drone is nothing without the collective.  
Within the cube drones by the thousands remain dormant, locked and bound tightly into the alcoves, their bodies rigid, ingesting the power the collective concludes they require, their eyes closed, grey mottled skin encased in often lifelong exoplating and eyes replaced with cybernetic ocular implants driven and forcefully merged deep into the brain, its connection having amalgamated itself and forced its own synaptic pathway to the brain.  
The drone does not complain.  
The drone will comply.  
The drone must comply.  
The drone knows nothing but to comply.  
The drone will comply.  
The drone is content.  
Regeneration is progressing.  
Power flows freely through the veins and synaptic pathways of the drone.  
The hum continues.  
The hum is peaceful.  
Within the hum is knowledge, knowledge that is not new, knowledge that is both old and new and constant, the flow of knowledge carried upon voices that never end.  
The voices are constant, their words cannot be made out, but the knowledge is constantly present and infinite.  
The hum of the cube as it progresses through this region pales in comparison to the hum of the infinite voices.  
The infinite voices are all-encompassing to the brain of a mere drone, and yet to each drone the voices encompass them equally.

Throughout the collective a subroutine activates, applying only to the drones required for the task at hand.  
A small colony is cited on unremarkable planet.  
Its technology is required.  
30 drones are required for this task.  
The required subroutines activate, and strict bindings retract, freeing the required drones from the prolonged period of inactivity from within the alcoves in which they were bound by cables and power transfers, knowledge, darkness and silence.  
Simultaneously 30 drones eyes awaken, cables retract, 30 pairs of marching feet step forward, empty minds yet filled with knowledge step forward in unison as they march forward from the alcoves.  
The drones are ready, the mind is filled with nothing other than the outcome that is required by the collective.  
There is no questioning.  
There is only automated obedience.  
There is only the goal.  
There is no resistance, because resistance is futile.  
The drones begin to gather to beam down to the planet.  
“We are Borg.  
You will be assimilated.  
Your technological and biological distinctiveness will be added to our own.  
Resistance is futile.“

It takes 35 minutes and 19 seconds for the colony and all resistance to be overpowered.  
764 individuals are assimilated, 764 new synaptic pathways of knowledge become one with the collective.  
Species 801 has been assimilated, and alcoves now fill with new Borg, the only exception being 27 allocated immediately to maturation chambers and the loss of three drones.  
The cube moves on, another system awaits its arrival.  
The returning drones return to the alcoves, powerful cables snapping into place, thrusting themselves into spinal ports eagerly awaiting regeneration.  
The assimilation of species 801 has been successful and now these drones will return to dormancy and regeneration for another unspecified amount of time where previously they had remained dormant for the last eight months by human standards.  
The drones returned to dormancy, mindless, thoughtless, eyes closing,  
including Seven of Nine, tertiary adjunct of unimatrix 01.

**Author's Note:**

> Well that was different wasn’t it?
> 
> As always comments are so nice to receive.
> 
> And sorry, I just had to chuck Seven in there at the end because the universe always seems to have a little bit of extra cruelty left over for her >.<


End file.
